


grace and endless grit

by casualbird



Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, Healing, Motherhood, Self-Esteem Issues, Trans Girl Maribelle (Implied), Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-27
Updated: 2019-02-27
Packaged: 2019-11-06 09:31:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17937239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/casualbird/pseuds/casualbird
Summary: Lissa isnotdelicate. Even when she is.





	grace and endless grit

**Author's Note:**

  * For [my best pal dan!](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=my+best+pal+dan%21).



> Content Warnings: Both of these are pretty small, so I didn't tag for them, but this fic contains brief, vague descriptions of surgery, as well as content that might upset people with emetophobia. Nobody... you know, but Lissa is described as feeling nauseous and gagging so I thought I'd let you all know.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy!

Lissa knew the boys were hers right when she saw them-- one leaned against the other’s shoulder just as she would lean on Maribelle. Hair mussed, bright blond. Lanky, bandaged, dishevelled.

She squeezed Maribelle’s hand. Maribelle cut a skeptical eye at her.

The taller boy cried out, voice rough.

“Ma, Ma! It’s Brady, your boy!”

“And ‘tis I, Owain, scion of blood exalted!”

Brady’s skinny arms crushed Lissa, her ribs almost cracking from the force--her son against the one side, her swelling heart against the other. Maribelle squeaked--Owain clutched her close, buried his face in her sleeve.

Maribelle’s brow furrowed, but she couldn’t hide the smile splitting her face. Lissa reached for Brady’s face, kissed his cheek. Saw her wife’s bright eyes in him, spilling tears.

“Forsooth, a sight for our sore eyes!” Owain crowed. His brother, dissolved in sobs, wailed agreement.

“P-pardon me, but how can I be sure--” Maribelle protested, back bowing under the weight of Owain’s affection. Before she could get through speaking, a ring was thrust into her hand, clinking against her wedding ring.

Lissa made one hand free, stroked it over Mari’s back as she stammered “how--what-- oh, my darling boy, don’t worry, Mother’s here!”

 

\---  
  


 

As the sun set over the camp, Brady caught his mother by the wrist. He led her briskly to the trees behind the mess.

“Do you need something, sweetheart?” Lissa asked, worrying her cuff between her fingers. Doubtless her boys carried burdens, things unsuited to campfires and jolly company.

“Yeah...” He mumbled, something Maribelle had wasted no time in chiding him for. “I got a question--what’s today?”

“Today? Um, it’s Wednesday. I think.”

Brady’s face pinched. “Nah-- the date.”

“Right. Hmm. July... something? Ninth, tenth. It’s tough keeping track, I know.”

Brady hesitated, shifting his shoes in the dirt. He laid a shaking hand on Lissa’s shoulder. “ _ Shit, _ Ma, I dunno how to say this to you. Um...”

“Oh, honey, go ahead.”

“Well, uh, I was born February. Of next year.”

Silence rang in their ears. The only sounds were Brady’s shallow breaths, the slap of Lissa’s hands over her mouth.

A muffled keening sound. Lissa’s cheeks burned under her hands. Her eyes were stinging in the air-- she couldn’t even blink.

“Ma--I, uh, I’m sorry? You always said I was a...” He trailed off. “Shit.” Another pause. “A...  _ happy accident. _ ”

When she told Maribelle, she barely believed it either.

 

  
\---  
  


 

The next battle came too quickly. Too early in the morning--as the barracks bustled, clamored with armor, voices, hurried footsteps, Lissa still moped into her pillow. Her stomach wobbled, her aching head felt full of static. The noise did not  _ half _ help.

The elder Brady had no end of loveliness to him, laced as it was with guilt. He’d brought her cups of tea, plied her with sweet stories of a childhood spent hiding behind his mothers’ skirts.

The younger did not share his brother’s courtesy. But if she lay and catered to him, she’d be of no use to the Shepherds. To Maribelle, Chrom, her darling sons. Lissa grumbled, hauled herself into a sitting position. Retched. Swallowed thickly, stood. Dizzy at first, but not so bad. Workable.

She was halfway into her wrought-iron crinoline when Maribelle swooped in to check on her.

“Oh, darling, I think  _ not!” _ she chided, voice like a silk-wrapped blade. She stepped into Lissa’s space, petting her shoulders and unlacing her crinoline at once. “Not while I draw breath. Back to bed, dearest, you look ill.” Maribelle kissed her forehead.

“Mari, I have to protect--”

“Nothing,” she warned, crisp. “It’s my turn to protect you.”

 

  
\---

 

 

So Lissa took obediently to bed, Mari drawing thin blankets up over her chin. She whisked herself away after a kiss and a demand to find some rest, and Lissa could only nod. Slow, mechanical. Mari was right. Not always, but now.

The morning air was cold, rolling off the harbor and under the battered doors. Lissa came fetal, knees drawn to chest. Lips bitten.

Roaring then, somewhere outside. Battle. Her blood was up, then, bolting through twisted, tired veins. Her legs shifted, her hands felt cold.

There were better uses for those hands. Lissa thumbed over her calluses, the places where she gripped her staff. The tiny scorch marks on her fingertips, where fire and lightning flared. She saw her knuckles blood-slicked, her fingers pinching veins. Her hands clasped to others, insisting ‘you’ll be alright’ when her focus was too tight to say it out.

Hands that were, today, just hands. Like wings on a flightless bird. Stunted. Delicate.

Was this the price on the head of her son? Delicacy? Lying royally abed while people no less worthy died?

Mari’d told her she had options. Brady, soft-spoken, had agreed.

Lissa was a debtor; she could pay out neither price.

 

\---

 

Hours gone, the Shepherds dragged themselves over the barracks’ threshold. A meandering stream of blood marked the route they’d taken home.

A canvas carpeted the floor, with an array of pallets she’d hauled from the convoy. Staves piled like kindling in the corner. Stacks of rolled bandages, medicines enchanted and mundane.

In the center of it, Lissa. She stood, and her compatriots could not help but notice that--if only slightly--her skin seemed to glow under rolled sleeves.

Shoulders slackened, bated breaths left lungs.

Maribelle and Brady leapt to her side, bedraggled as they were. Maribelle’s hair was snarled, blood-matted, and Brady’s tabard was cut ragged, a freshly-spelled wound scabbing over his ribs. Lissa gagged at the smell of blood and sweat, but kissed her family nonetheless.

They made a fool of death that day.

In the evening, as the wounded slept stable, Maribelle toasted her wife with a cup of tea. Brady played a wild, bright-eyed reel on his violin, and Owain made up the words, tuneless half-rhymes and boisterous refrains. His brother’s bravery under fire, the hellfire Maribelle summoned for the brute who’d harmed her son. And verse on verse for Lissa, able-handed, made of grace and endless grit.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you liked it! This is something I've been working on for a while, so I'm very pleased to have it finished and out in the world.
> 
> It's so annoying--I challenged myself to write this story as a series of 200-word scenes, but the word count isn't a nice round number because AO3 counts hyphenated words differently than Google Docs does. Ugh.
> 
> All feedback is appreciated, and come hang out with me on [dreamwidth](https://casualbird.dreamwidth.org) if you feel so inclined!


End file.
